


turn up the light that keeps me awake

by alicethewallflower



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-14 19:30:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5755474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alicethewallflower/pseuds/alicethewallflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Here lie the messages, phone calls, broken hearts and sometimes lyrics that linger in the wake of someone who left. Just like that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	turn up the light that keeps me awake

**Author's Note:**

> for natasha's autumn fic exchange

_Yo! This Zayn! Obviously I’m not around to answer the phone right now, sorreh ‘bout that. Bu’ leave me a message and I’ll try get back to ya. Alright? Wicked! I’ll, uh, talk to ya’ soon probably. Alright, bye._

—

Harry’s stomach bottoms out, the sound of Zayn giving an embarrassed laugh and talking to someone who was almost certainly in the room when he made the recording just barely hitting the speaker in soft, rumbling vibrations. Harry can practically hear Zayn chuckling around his pink tongue that pokes out between his teeth whenever he laughs, can see the scrunching around his eyes and the glitter of amusement in the pools of brown. Harry is pretty sure his heart has shifted into his throat, actually, and that he’s either going to choke on it or be sick.

He pulls the phone away from his ear and jabs his thumb down on the screen, hanging up before he does something completely pathetic like sob down the phone for Zayn to just please come back, or tell him that he’s in love with him. Because he is, in love with him, that is and, yeah, telling him probably wouldn’t be the best idea.

But as Harry combs his fingers through his hair, grips onto his roots and tugs in frustration, he thinks about how he’s wanted to tell him for the past five years — nearly that, anyway. And it hurts to think about, feels like stab wounds to his chest, that it’s been that long since they’ve been a team and yet it didn’t feel like it took Zayn all that long to decide to walk out on all of them, leave them in the lurch, leave Harry’s heart in tatters.

Not that he knew, Harry tells himself. How could Zayn possibly know?

&&

Harry doesn’t know how him and the rest of the boys do it. But somehow, amongst the staggering amount of betrayal they feel, along with the fear of what comes next for this newly made four-piece, they do it. They smash Jakarta, they smash Johannesburg and they smash Cape Town. All whilst dealing with lead heavy hearts and the disorientating sensation that, as they manoeuvre themselves across the stage, there is a substantial amount of mass missing in the air beside them.

In particular, Harry misses the gentle hand to the small of his back as he and Zayn dart around each other, Harry always in the habit of bounding across the catwalk and smashing into Zayn. He pretends like it’s not on purpose, but part of him thinks it probably, almost certainly always, was.

He misses, too, the concerned pat on his shoulder and the bottle of water outstretched in offering towards him, Zayn’s thick, black eyebrows raised in a question. He, in that respect, always seemed like the big brother Harry didn’t want him to be. Because, whilst Zayn and Louis were losing their inhibitions in sweaty, grimy clubs in the Philippines with girls that surely weren’t their girlfriends, Harry was fisting the white sheets in his hotel room and touching himself. Sometimes he pretended Zayn was with him, that it was his hand curled around the base of his dick. Other times Harry just pictured him, thought of the sharp angles of his jaw and his cheeks sculpted out of marble; thought of his pink, pink tongue wrapped around him; thought of the brown pigment of his skin flushed red from exertion. Sometimes Harry came undone just like that.

But now Harry doesn’t even have that version of Zayn, the one that cares for him like family. He just has this empty feeling that he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to deal with, that and the endless stream on his Twitter activity of people, their fans, asking how he’s coping and if they’re still friends.

Harry wonders if him and Zayn are still friends. He thinks back to the phone call, gripping onto his hair at the memory of Zayn not picking up. He didn’t answer and Harry doesn’t know if that means he’s screening calls, or if he just wasn’t near his phone at the time. But surely the latter would mean a call back, and Harry had never received one of those.

The thought hits Harry then that he needs to get away. Not out of the band ‘away’ though; he doesn’t mean it like that. Harry doesn’t think he could ever do to the others what Zayn had done, put them through the same pain and loss like one of their brothers had physically died. He’ll admit only to himself though that he had considered it, calling it all off, throwing in the towel before they’d even begun work on album number five.

The thought of that alone makes him sick — an album without Zayn.

What Harry means, though, is that he needs to get out of the confines of these four walls, painted magnolia of all colours. Get away, too, from the networks upon networks of people peering at him like he’s in a fish ball, jabbing their fingers against the glass and waiting to see if he quivers.

&&

**Hi Zayn, just thought I’d drop you a text and tell you about what I did today. Not that I want to make you jealous or any**

Delete. Delete. Delete.

**Hi Zayn, how are you? I never heard back when I tried to call you. Maybe you’re busy**

Delete. Delete. Delete.

**I just climbed up Tabletop Mountain today in Cape Town. It’s pretty sick, can’t help thinking you would have loved it. The view is incredible. It feels good to be up so high. I wish I could get up even higher, above the clouds and all that. Everything is kind of suffocating at the moment. Guess it’s the same for you right now though, yeah? Everyone’s prodding and probing, trying to get some inside scoop about whether we argued, whether we hate each other. Sometimes I wish we had had a screaming match, Zayn. Screamed and screamed until our throats were raw, screamed until I fell into you and you held me whilst I cried on your shoulder. Cause I did cry, you know that right? And I wish you could have kissed it better, kissed me. I don’t even know why I’m typing this all out, there’s no way I’ll send it. Maybe it’s this view. It really is amazing, Zayn. You could’ve had this, could’ve had me. H .xx**

—

He thinks about sending it. He really does. But he’s up so high and the signal is shit and when his thumb slips over the ‘send’ button, it pings back with a ‘failed to deliver’.

&&

Harry doesn’t think about the text again, not for a long time. He throws himself into his work, gets himself suitably hyped up before each show and gives the fans the time of their lives, fools them into thinking there’s absolutely nothing wrong, that no one is missing.

The reviews speak for themselves, describing the foursome as smooth and as strong as ever. Those words bring a pang of pride with them, hitting Harry right in the chest, because he is always afraid he’s wearing his heart on his sleeve onstage when he stumbles and finds himself seeking out Zayn, brow furrowing when he realises that, of course, he’s not there.

But he forgets about all that.

They start work on the album and he writes lyrics about girls he doesn’t really care about, writes about ones he makes up in his head. Never offers up ones about Zayn though, even if he has got a whole notebook jam-packed with songs just like that. Those ones are just for Harry; maybe just for Zayn too, not that he’ll ever know they exist.

Harry actually finds himself getting a bit excited for the band again with the music flowing out of them, realising that maybe they can do this as a four and not a five. All isn’t entirely lost.

Still, the announcement of their hiatus brings a sigh of relief, his lungs finally able to take in their full capacity at the thought that they might finally get a break. Because for the past five years Harry’s feet feel like they’ve barely touched the ground and it’s been amazing, sure, but it’s taken its toll.

He misses his family and, more than anything, he misses the possibility of a substantial relationship that doesn’t just stretch the month of December like a too-many-times-worn jumper.

Harry doesn’t acknowledge the fact that the one person he just might like that kind of connection with is long gone and, even if he were here, it’s an impossibility nonetheless.

—

_Hey Angel. Do you look at us and laugh, when we hold onto the past?_

&&

Harry’s pretty fucked to the point where he doesn’t know how many he’s had. He’s not sure how he makes it through the throng of paparazzi outside the bar, sees through their plethora of blinding flashes as he squints and tries to find a safe path to the car waiting for him. He sort of thinks he remembers a small, petite hand pressing into his back, but he doesn’t like it. It’s not rough and warm like Zayn’s, so the sensation in itself seems alien to him, even though Harry hasn’t experienced that man’s touch in so long — what feels like forever, actually.

And he knows what that girl’s hand means, anyway. They’re all the same in LA, the socialites.

To most, Harry isn’t really a person anymore. His name is an object, passed around to create a buzz, to somehow find some kind of common ground between two people, or even to instigate the upper hand. It’s a name to add on to a long, long list and, for this girl Harry thinks, it’s one to giggle and dissect over Sunday morning brunch.

Usually Harry would do the gentlemanly thing of at least letting her and her expectations of the night down once they’ve pulled up at her place, but he doesn’t even bother to extend that courtesy to her, muttering to the driver that’s come to collect his messy, drunk arse that she’s not with him.

The door gets slammed immediately behind him, and Harry doesn’t bother to lift his head, from where it finds itself securely wedged between his knees, to glance at her probably sullen expression through the tinted windows.

It probably would have been good for him, to lose himself in someone else, but he can’t trust that, nestled between that girls legs, he won’t be whispering the wrong name, a man’s name.

So Harry leaves it and drowns his sorrows with yet more drink, this time in the expensive liquor variety, when he gets back to his empty shell of a house. He’s not sure why it feels that way to him, though. He spends a lot of time here and it’s all nicely furnished. Something about this visit makes it seem hollow though. Perhaps it’s to do with the fact Harry knows he’s here too. Not just on the same continent or in the same time zone, but here in Los Angeles.

Harry throws himself down on the grey sofa, placing the tumbler glass and an expensive bottle of whiskey on the mirrored tabletop. The bottle was gifted from someone high up in their management, and Harry almost laughs, because he probably wouldn’t even be able to recognise whoever gave it to him in a crowded room. There are always so many people and Harry is selfish enough to always think that, at those events — at any point in his day really — he only wants to see one. The thought makes him feel guilty every time, because what about the other important people in his life — the other three boys, his family?

Harry leans back into the decorative cushions that take up ninety-nine percent of the sofa. He slips his arms out of the suit jacket, not bothering to hang it up straight away to avoid creases. No, he just pats around for his phone in the breast pocket and relaxes again, turning the half empty tumbler around in his palm. His other hand unlocks his phone, stumbling for a moment and having to retype in his pass code.

He can’t even see the screen at first, the world sort of spinning in his vision right now. He navigates his way to his contacts, though — eventually — even though a voice in his head is screaming at him that he’ll regret this moment of weakness later.

He’s not even sure he hears Zayn’s answer phone. He just starts speaking and then, somewhere along the telephone line that just barely connects them, crying.

—

_“Zayn? God, Zayn, I wish you were here. It’s been nearly six months. Did you know that? Six months without you and I’m still not dealing with any of this. I miss your voice so much, Zayn. So so sooooo much. And not, like, your singing voice, although fuck. You know? Just fuck. I dunno how we’re doing any of this without you. Is it selfish t-to wish you’d come back? C-could you at least return my phone calls, or, or something? I need-need to hear from you, because… because. Fuck! I just do, okay? I can’t even say why, can I? I wrote it down…I was gunna send you this text, but I bottled it and there was no service anyway. I should’ve tried again or s-something. [Sigh] Zayn, I—”_

&&

Harry wakes to a throbbing headache and a knock on his door. He must have fallen asleep on the sofa, because he wakes with a crook in his neck and an ache in his lower back. The tumbler glass is carelessly tipped over on its side on the couch and there’s a small damp patch.

He curses under his breath, but is ultimately pulled towards the incessant knocking of the door. He drags a hand through his greasy hair, curls turned straggly and frizzy in the night, then grasping on the latch of the door. He doesn’t register the fact that this person didn’t need to press the buzzer on the large gate at the end of the driveway, nor does Harry think to check the cameras before throwing the door open. He’s tired and hungover, maybe even still a little bit drunk.

When he lays eyes on who exactly it is, forest green falling on those pools of brown, he wonders if he really is still drunk. Because it’s Zayn, looking like he’s had about as much sleep as Harry has. Except, in typical Zayn fashion, he still looks remarkably cool and put together in a black leather jacket and a head of silvery highlighted hair.

For someone who had so much to say through texts and voicemails — even lyrics — Harry doesn’t find it in him to speak. His mouth has gone completely dry.

“So I got your calls,” Zayn says, pushing one hand into the tight confines of his skinny black jean’s pockets, the other’s thumb tracing along his bottom lip. “And your text.”

Harry’s eyebrows instantly pull together. It clicks immediately in his head — which is surprising really considering his current state — that he’d only ever sent one text across the expanse of the last nearly six months, and he hadn’t thought it had sent.

“What were you going to say at the end of that voicemail last night, Harry?”

His eyes quickly snap back up to Zayn’s, brought back to the present by the way the darker haired boys lips form around his name. He blushes at the acknowledgment in his head that he has always kind of wanted to know what that sounded like in a moment of raw passion.

“I-” Harry’s eyes dance over Zayn’s face, tongue heavy, brain unable to commute words to the useless muscle.

Zayn takes a step closer, although Harry hasn’t exactly invited him in, standing lamely in the doorway. “I need to hear it, Harry. I can’t- I can’t do this without your reassurance.”

“I-I’ve missed you?” Harry tilts his head to the side, scrunching his face up, because he knows just as well as Zayn that that isn’t what he wanted to hear.

Zayn shakes his head, tongue licking over his bottom lip as he thinks for a bit. “Nah, Harreh, that’s not it.”

Harry’s cheeks flame red at the embarrassing thought that he might get rejected, but, with his hands balled into fists, he finally says it. And Zayn smiles.


End file.
